The War Makes No Apologies
by Joanna Hepler
Summary: Chapter 7 Up! Hawkeye sticks up for Frank for the first time ever, but Frank goes AWOL in a fit of rage. He’s thought a hell of a lot, but can he answer Trapper's tough questions when he returns? Frank and Hawkeye OOC x39, no slash, lots of rude words.
1. Chapter 1

**The War Makes No Apologies (Guerra de Nervios)**

_Note: This is my first ever MASH fic…feel free to flame me if you reckon it's worthy, but keep that in mind… also that I know this is extremely out of character for Frank, and that this is more a Charles-esque course of action, but I liked Frank better._

_Ideas always needed, comments always welcome, booze always appreciated._

_Disclaimer: 20th Century Fox owns all these marvellous characters and their marvellous personalities!_

**Part 1 (They're not chapters, they're parts. Too short to be chapters.)**

"Attention, all personnel. We interrupt your sleep to bring you incoming wounded in twenty minutes. Repeat, incoming wounded in twenty minutes. The war makes no apologies for disruption of normal programming."

Damn right it didn't. The war couldn't have cared less what we were doing or planning on doing, where we were going, what we were thinking. It kept going on its merry way and to hell with anyone who tried to stop it. The war was like a huge steamroller, it kept on trundling along, flattening everything in its –

"Frank, if you don't get up, I'm afraid I'll have to call in the reinforcements. I'm sure Klinger would be happy to help."

Dammit. Pierce. "Pierce! How dare you speak like that to a superior officer! I don't need Klinger to get me out of bed!"

"Oh, I do believe I already have. Haven't I, Trapper?"

"Yep. Too late, Frank."

"Besides, I thought you _enjoyed_ being woken by wounded! Well? Are you getting out of bed or not?"

"Leave him Hawkeye, if he doesn't get up then Margaret will have to convince him. We better get to Pre-Op."

SLAM. Could they never learn how to close doors properly? I swear Pierce and McIntyre will be the end of me. Those two get on my nerves every single day, without fail. I'm always the butt of their jokes, the one they laugh at. Everyone laughs at me. Granted, I'd laugh at me too if it wasn't me we were laughing at (I sound like that fool of a Henry Blake)… If only Pierce could be civil… but that couldn't happen. This was _Pierce_ we were talking about!

I hauled myself out of bed and hurried to Pre-Op. The last thing I needed was Pierce coming back and dragging me out.

It was 12pm, 9 hours of solid surgery. It was by no means our longest stretch in the O.R., but it was one of the most grating. We worked as we always did – Pierce and McIntyre cracking jokes, Margaret and I working together efficiently and Blake getting on with it.

"Hey, Frank."

"What is it, McIntyre?"

"You realise what number patient you're on?"

"As long as that number doesn't rise I don't care. Now be quiet and concentrate. Sponge."

"Sponge."

"It's number 13… and the number 13 is unlucky…"

"Trapper, that's a terrible thing to say, even to Frank."

"McIntyre! How could you say such a thing? That's despicable, now cut it out." I figured I might as well stick up for myself.

"Oh, come on Hawkeye, what do you care? It's Frank we're talking about. Suction."

"Suction."

"Pierce, McIntyre, get on with the surgery."

"Yes, Mr. Henry Colonel Sir."

"But really, Hawkeye, since when have you-"

"Since when have I cared about Frank? Since thirty seconds ago. What does it matter?"

"Hawkeye, this is _Frank_. You're not sticking up for him, are you?"

Sticking up for me! What the hell is he doing?

"Trapper, shut it. I need to concentrate."

"Good idea. You lot quieten down, all right?"

"Yes, Mr. Henry Colonel Sir."

"Well, _are_ you?"

"So what if I am?" Pierce declared, raising his voice.

A slightly eerie silence filled the room.

"So what if I am sticking up for him? Frank and I may mutually hate each other but we need to get on in the O.R. Trapper, you are making my life a lot harder. Right now, I need you to put a sock in it."

"But Hawkeye-"

"_Trapper, cut it out!_"

Pierce's voice cut through the air like a freshly sharpened scalpel. The O.R. went deathly quiet.

* * *

Oh boy, bad jokes "deathly quiet," what was I thinking… hehe, sorry I had to keep you hanging. Brilliant it ain't, but it keeps me occupied. Reviews always welcome, especially when I'm just starting out. Ideas always wanted, flames always appreciated. Part 2 next! 


	2. Chapter 2

**Part 2**

It was 1pm. Surgery was finished for the day. Normally, they'd all head over to the Officer's Club to drown their sorrows in alcohol. I rarely joined them, since I never could stand being in the company of drunkards, especially Pierce and McIntyre. As usual, I headed to my tent, planning to stop by at Margaret's later on. As I opened the door, I received quite a shock to find Pierce sitting on his cot, holding a ubiquitous martini in his hand, looking at me strangely.

"Pierce! What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be at the Officer's Club?" It was rare for Pierce to return to the Swamp after so short an O.R. session.

"Who says I should be anywhere?" Pierce took a sip of his martini.

"Pierce, I have a, er, question for you." Feeling ridiculous at the thought of asking Pierce anything, I made my way over to my cot and sat down.

"Oh, whoopee, look at that, Frank has a question, isn't that fabulous?" He seemed, if anything, slightly irritated, and took another sip of martini.

I didn't appreciate his remarks, and told him so. "I need to ask you something."

"Ask _me_ something? Frank, you're getting too civil and friendly in your old age."

I decided to let it go. He paused, noticing I was serious. "All right, what is it?"

"Pierce, why did you stick up for me in the O.R.? We can't stand each other, we barely say a good word in each other's direction and now you're sticking up for me? If anything, _you're_ getting too civil and friendly."

Pierce was evidently thinking hard about my question, for he had set down his martini next to his cot.

"You're right. Normally, Frank, if you had asked this question I would say I had mistaken you for someone else and I was defending the wrong person," began Pierce. "And normally that would be the case. But this time, I don't think I mistook you for someone else at all. Maybe the war's getting to me, or Trapper's put something in the Still – both of those I highly doubt – but I honestly believed that Trapper was being a pain in the neck, and I needed to tell him so."

I couldn't believe my ears. "Well, er, thankyou Pierce, but…"

"But what, Frank?"

"I, er… have you lost your mind? You hate me!"

"That I do, but as I pointed out to Trapper, we need to be able to get on in the O.R."

"But McIntyre's your best friend!" I couldn't believe what I was hearing! Pierce, annoying as he is, is a) being civil and b) sticking up for me!

"True, but that doesn't mean he doesn't need a kick in the tush every now and then."

He picked up his martini, but slammed it down before taking another sip.

"Geez, I can't believe we're talking like this… you should have yelled at me by now. Where's Frank Burns gone? Instead we've got a calm-tempered, civil Major sharing this tent!" Pierce threw his hands up in the air in frustration.

I wasn't in the mood to be lecturing, as I usually did. Besides, I was so taken aback at Pierce's niceness, I instinctively didn't yell at him, in the hope of making it last. Stupid, I know, but…

"What's gotten into you, Frank?"

"What's gotten into _you_, Pierce? You're the one being nice. You're the once defending me against your friend's teasing and taunting. You're the one being civil!" I almost yelled at him, something I didn't want to do.

"Oh, so it's a bad thing, now? I make an effort to be pleasant to you and this is what I get for it!"

I nearly regretted shouting at Pierce, but I managed to pull myself together. This is _Pierce_ we're talking with. Any effort to take him down a peg or two should be applauded, not regretted! I began to wonder… what _was_ getting into me?

"You know what, Frank? Since we're all behaving so strangely, I think a drink's in order."

I was honestly tempted to say no, in the usual fashion ("That stuff's disgusting, I'm not touching it") and almost did…

"All right then."

What the hell did I say that for?

Pierce poured me a glass. I was surprised at how bad it _didn't_ taste, not unlike what I could get at the Officer's Club. Maybe this still of theirs wasn't as bad as I made it out to be…

"Well, I don't know about you, but I have places to go, people to see… You coming?" Pierce drained his martini glass and got up.

"Well, people would be mightily confused if they saw you and me talking in a friendly fashion. Besides, you'll get drunk, and I hate drunkards."

"Well, if you can't beat them, join them… Variety is the spice of life, Frank you fuddy-duddy. Try it. Being drunk might extract some life out of you, if there's any there… " Pierce hesitated, almost as if he _wanted_ me to go. This was getting ridiculous… but he'd get drunk and hate me tomorrow, as usual. What did I have to lose? Well, my dignity and pride, for starters…

"Frank? Hello Frank, anyone home? Coming or not?" I hated how Pierce always interrupted my daydreaming.

"You'll regret this tomorrow, Pierce, and so will I," I grumbled as I got myself up.

"That I might, but there will be other people in the Officer's Club to remind us."

Before I had a chance to say anything, Pierce had forced me out the door and in the direction of the Officer's Club. I turned around just in time to see (and hear) the door shut with a deafening SLAM. Even with his new-found civility, Pierce still couldn't close doors properly.

That's Frank for you, old habits die hard… but what _is_ getting into him? And Hawkeye? R/R, ideas always wanted, flames always appreciated. Part 3 coming whenever I get around to writing it. Currently working on another story, so this one may take a while. Don't tell me you weren't warned.


	3. Chapter 3

_And so we arrive at Part Three. It isn't brilliant, but go easy on me, alright:D_

_Note: I don't know Frank's wife's name, so tell me what it is if anyone knows. I made one up for storytelling purposes._

_Just in case you've been living under a rock, I own none of this. That pleasure belongs to 20th Century Fox._

**Part 3**

So there I was, sitting in that Officer's Club, sipping a drink of some description Pierce pushed in front of me. I don't even know what it was. Reminded me of that… still… It's actually quite difficult to resist the temptation to call it "foul" because now I've drunk something from it and it was a lot better than I thought it would be.

Around the time I started poking the toothpick through the olive for the thirtieth time (that would make it a martini, eh?) my ears overheard a rather interesting conversation between that degenerate McIntyre and that… Pierce… (I can't call him degenerate now! What else am I going to call him?) Taking an interest, I managed to prick my ears so I could hear better…

"Pair."

"Yes! Full house."

"Dammit, Trapper, that's the third time this week! You're sending me broke!"

Aha. A poker game.

"Isn't that the point of poker? Better you lose to me than to Sidney."

Silence for a few seconds. Since I had my back turned, I couldn't see anything, but I could hear the shuffling of cards.

"All right, Hawkeye, you've got my attention. What's up?"

"The sky is up, Trapper, and the ground is down. You know that."

A sigh. Probably McIntyre.

"Come on Hawk, be serious. What's wrong?"

"What's wrong? What's wrong is all these poor kids being shot up in a war! What's wrong is that they're using guns to do it!"

(How else are they going to shoot them? With arrows?)

"What's wrong is the insane amount of work we have to do to keep these kids alive! And sometimes we can't do that!" I heard the scraping of a chair. Pierce must have stood up.

"All right, look, calm down Hawkeye. You've never gotten this worked up about, well, work before. There must be something behind it."

Another sigh, bigger this time. More chair scraping.

"You saw that kid, Private James Greenwood. He was only a small kid, looked even smaller than Radar."

McIntyre let out a soft, low whistle. As much as I thought the boy was a useless nincompoop O'Reilly was small… anyone smaller than that…

Pierce sniffled. (Get a hanky.) "He was riddled with bullets. I don't know how he managed to stay alive long enough for us to operate on him… I couldn't save him!" More sniffling. (Get a hanky already!)

"Hawkeye, losing one patient gets to us all. We can't save everybody. Some of them are beyond help when they get to us, like Pvt. Greenwood. You are a fantastic surgeon, Hawkeye. You know that. I know that. Everyone knows that. But you can't save all of them."

Urgh. Mush. Can't that degenerate McIntyre stop telling Pierce what he wants to hear? … On the other hand, that might explain his civility…

"I don't know, Trapper. I thought we could save him…"

"It won't do you any good to dwell on it, Hawkeye. Think about something different." I heard McIntyre get up to get another drink. He noticed me sitting at the bar, glum.

"Hey Frank, what's up your nose?"

I immediately tightened and pursed my lips. I didn't want McIntyre talking to me. "Nothing, McIntyre. I am fine."

"Aw, really, Frank? Come on, you've got a drink; you can't be that bad."

This incensed me. McIntyre had no idea what was going on! What would he know?

I stood up and pointed a finger in his face. "For your information, McIntyre, I am quite all right, and would be a lot better if you would leave me alone!" Drat it. Attention. Just what I didn't want.

I stormed out of the Officer's Club. Behind me, I heard Pierce yell at McIntyre, "Now look what you've done! He was all right before you bothered him!"

Pierce? Still caring?

The door of our tent opened almost by itself. Digging a glass out of my footlocker, I made my way to that still and poured myself a very large drink. Returning to my cot, something caught my eye. Of course! The letter I'd received earlier that day I hadn't had a chance to read fully; I'd only glanced at it. I grabbed it from underneath my pillow and started to read.

"_Dear Frank,_

_Firstly, I hope you are well, and that this letter reaches you safely. _

_However, and though I dislike opening letters thusly there is no other way, I have a bone to pick with you._

_I understand that your busy work as a surgeon in a war zone leaves very little time for comfort or pleasantries. I remain in adoration of your surgical skills and how you are able to continue your job while so far away from home._

Pah. Even she knew that I was a rubbish surgeon. I didn't fail two med schools for nothing.

"_Nonetheless, I feel abandoned at your apparent reluctance to write letters home. Your last letter reached me four months ago and I have not heard from or of you since. Though we both know that we are not the closest of couples, and certainly not since you left for Korea, I feel that it would be only courteous to at least write me a small note reassuring me that you have not died or left me for another woman._

If only she knew about Hot Lips…

"_I beg of you, Frank, please reply. I swear it would do our relationship wonders to resume regular communication and also put my heart at ease._

_Yours truly,_

_Edith Burns"_

I slowly put the letter down on my cot. I never knew how she felt about me… though that was probably due to my lack of letter-writing than anything else. I mean, we were never close, and I only really married her for her money… but at the end of the day, she was – and is – my wife. Something had to be done; but I was going to have another drink first.

Another drink? Frank, you're emulating Pierce! First you start having feelings, now you're drinking… where will it end?

Yay! It's finished! Boy, that took me ages to write. It's amazing how much you get done when your internet's screwed up… :D Please review! I badly need ideas for this story. Very, very BADLY.


	4. Chapter 4

_Oh my. Part 4. I can't believe it! Thankyou, once again, to those who took the time to review. I have ideas now, but still not quite enough so more will be needed. I now know that Frank's wife's name is Louise; I didn't know that before. Yes, I'll get round to fixing it, be patient, folks. This shall still be told only from Frank's perspective. No one else's. There is a reason… I just don't know what it is. So you'll be getting a somewhat one-sided story._

_Warning: This chapter contains flashbacks._

_Note: Some bad language in this chapter. Sporky, if you're reading this, please don't kill me. :D Don't say I didn't tell you._

Part 4 (the longest yet!) 

That letter. That blasted letter. Ruined my day. Pierce was being civil and she goes and writes me a letter. Dammit. 

I sighed. Realising it would do me no good mulling over its contents, I set down my drink and decided to go for a walk. Those rats would arrive any minute and I had no wish to be in their company. I thought to slip the letter into my pocket before I left. Goodness only knows what that pair would make of it.

The afternoon was chilly. The sun was clouded; the wind nipped at my heels. That damned Officer's Club was rowdy and noisy, full of drunkards… ooh, if I had my way… but I don't (I will some day!) so I shan't dwell on it.

I stood in the middle of the compound, between the raucous Officer's Club and my tent (it was still my tent, even with Pierce and McIntyre), staring at the sky. The clouds were dark, casting a gloomy aura over the camp.

Shuffle, shuffle. There was someone coming. I deliberately avoided looking at them and continued staring at the sky for no reason at all.

"Frank?" Dammit. That bloody degenerate! Can he not take no for an answer?

"Piss off."

A pause.

"Frank, I-"

"I said, piss off." To my horror, I felt a tear start to trickle down my cheek. Army jackets make good hankies.

"Look, Frank-"

I could take it no longer. I spun around and looked McIntyre in the eye.

"What part of the sentence 'I would be a lot better if you would leave me alone' don't you understand? I come out here for some air and to rid myself of you and you follow me! Leave me alone!" I all but shouted. That wasn't such a good idea; someone in the Officer's Club might hear and come to see what the commotion was.

McIntyre didn't seem shocked; on the contrary, his face showed that he expected nothing else. "I only came to ask you something."

"Ask me tomorrow. I'm not in the mood. Now go back and-"

"Frank, listen to me!"

"Why the hell should I listen to you? I don't have to stand for this, you know! I can have you court-martialled for… for… harassment of an officer!" I was spouting shit now. I didn't know what I was saying.

"Can you get court-martialled for that? You should have used that excuse long ago."

"I…I…look, McIntyre, leave me alone!" I turned toward the road out. "Just… leave me alone. Everybody leave me alone." That walk was looking better and better every second. My feet seemed to speed up almost of their own accord.

"Fine. I'll leave you alone. But when you come back, you'll be facing some tough questions!" yelled McIntyre.

I didn't care. I didn't care anymore. I walked out of the MASH 4077th and didn't look back.

……ooooooOOOOOOoooooo……

It was nightfall. Since that confrontation with McIntyre, I'd stayed on that path out of camp, attempting to make sure I didn't get myself lost. Stupidly, I'd kept walking in the dusk, when the sun bade the earth goodbye and the light began to fail. As the last rays of sunlight reached over the mountains, I found an early-fruiting tree and an unused foxhole nearby in which to spend the night. It was then when I realised I didn't have the foggiest idea where the hell I was.

"Well, well, well. Major Frank Marion Burns, you fool of a human being. Look what you've done! You've squandered any chance of Pierce keeping up his friendliness, squabbled with McIntyre and gotten yourself lost in Korea! All in one day to boot."

They say that talking to oneself is the first sign of madness. I figured I may as well, since no one was around to document it and nominate me for a Section Eight. I knew walking off like that was a stupid thing to do. After all, we were still in a war zone. However, General Clayton had come through the area a week or so back, and I hadn't heard of any North Korean movements in the area. Just to be on the safe side, I kept a low profile… and talked to myself quietly.

Having no way of contacting or returning to the camp until the following morning, I took the time to mull over the day's events. Had it only been one day? It felt a hell of a lot longer than that…

Pierce in O.R. At first I had no idea why he'd acted in such a nice manner… but then my memory stirred… something came back to me…

**Flashback**

"Mail call!" O'Reilly yelled. Almost immediately, a swarm of personnel enveloped him, meaning he was barely visible among the throng of mail-hungry people.

"Mulcahy… Baker… Burns… Hey Frank, here's one for you!"

Upon mention of my first name (much as I disliked him or anyone else using it) I ran to him and snatched the letter he held out to me. I flipped it over, and glanced down. It was from Louise. I don't know why she kept referring to herself as Edith the last time we'd spoken. Apparently she resembled a film star of the same name and the attention had gone to her head. Then again, she might have just changed it. Not that I'd know, being stuck in Korea… The letter made its way to my pocket. I'd read it later.

"Bigelow… Klinger… Pierce…"

As I walked around the compound, I saw Pierce grab a letter out of O'Reilly's hands and rip it open on the spot. I watched him closely, his facial expression amusingly changing numerous times as he read the letter. By the time he reached the end, his face was contorted into an expression of anger, hate, fear and remorse. I personally hadn't known it was possible to portray such a wide variety of emotions all at the one time. A small giggle escaped my lips, followed by a full belly laugh. Yes, I knew it was inappropriate of me to laugh, but his face…

Pierce's head snapped up and he looked me square in the eye. I attempted to stop laughing in time. Instead of the angry, fiery look he usually greeted me with, his eyes were full of sorrow, with a look nearing repentance. He then looked away and walked into the tent, leaving me quite perplexed, and in a way, afraid.

**End Flashback**

I didn't get a chance to read what was in that letter. (Fair enough too, seeing as it was addressed to him, but still…) I hoped it wasn't bad news, because then he'd take it out on me. However, it didn't seem so. Maybe the contents of that letter were the catalyst for his bout of niceness… He'd never tell me the contents, so I'd have to figure it out for myself.

McIntyre in the Officers' Club. Well, that was at least more explainable. McIntyre was simply a slothful, uncouth, nasty piece of work. No doubt about it. The man simply annoyed the shits out of me! He hadn't been the nice one to me. He was narky to me and I responded in kind. Nothing out of the ordinary, at least nothing I could think of, anyway.

McIntyre in the Compound. Again, his fault. He came up to me, even after I'd explicitly told him to piss off. Sure, he might have been offering something in the way of an apology, but as if I'd ever listen to him. That man should have known better than to approach me. Even though I knew that if he hadn't learned by now (willingly or otherwise) he was never going to…

The foxhole was surprisingly warm. It had been partially dug into a small hill, so it was at least sheltered somewhat. I managed to fit most of me into that sheltered area. Though it had been a chilly afternoon and an even chillier night, I felt very warm (if not comfortable) given I wasn't wearing a lot of warm clothing.

As I settled in, it occurred to me that they'd (finally) done as I asked. They'd left me alone, to be by myself in peace. I hadn't heard so much as a jeep, or the footsteps of MPs, North Koreans or villagers. I was all on my lonesome.

I laid my head on the soft earth. With that, I suddenly realised how tired my body really was; it was aching, almost pleading with me to stop moving it and go to sleep. I stopped thinking about it all – Pierce, McIntyre, the letter - and quietly snoozed away…

……ooooooOOOOOOoooooo……

They didn't find me.

The thought leapt into my brain at the moment I awoke to find myself still scrunched up in that foxhole. The air was still quiet; there wasn't a person around. I was still alone. Immediately my mind raced with possibilities.

Maybe they hadn't looked. That seemed the most obvious solution. I had, after all, told McIntyre to leave me alone, and hopefully he had abided by that wish. That said, however, most people at the 4077th probably wouldn't want to look for me. I could never forget that time I came across Nurses Able and Bigelow fashioning Frank Burns dolls out of fabric scraps. Each had dots where my organs would be. It didn't take me long to figure out they were voodoo dolls. Only then did it really hit home how terribly unpopular I had become.

Maybe they'd looked but had given up. Colonel Blake would most likely order this, to give the impression he cared somewhat where I was. To give the impression he took my disappearance seriously. By rights, he shouldn't; after all, we didn't get along much better than Harry Truman and Mao Zedong.

Maybe they were still looking. This seemed unlikely, given my aforementioned unpopularity. However, I hadn't heard any signs of life in the area and maybe they hadn't reached out this far yet.

Slowly, I poked my head out of the foxhole. I didn't recognise the place, but I saw the road nearby. "Simple," I thought. "I can just follow the road back to the 4077th." No one seemed to live here, but I hadn't come across any signs saying "CAUTION: MINEFIELD." It was all a bit curious. I figured I should probably start heading back to camp, lest they send the MPs out after me, and then I'd be in the shits.

After taking a few berries off the fruiting tree (exactly what sort of berries I wasn't sure on) I made my way back onto the road. It was a bit more dangerous walking in daylight, as you were (obviously) more visible and thus more of a sniper target. Every step I took reminded me of how incredibly stupid I'd been, and how much trouble I'd be in the moment I set foot in that camp…

……ooooooOOOOOOoooooo……

_And so we reach the end of Part 4. I do hope you enjoyed it, and even if you didn't there's plenty more fish in the sea. Please, PLEASE review! Don't forget, you've gotta write 'em to get 'em. (That means you, Sporky. I reckon you'd be great at this. :P Don't hit me.)_


	5. Chapter 5

Part 5 

As I walked along that dusty road, the sun rose higher and the day got warmer. Had I really walked this far in one night? Then again, I was taking my time in daylight, whereas at dusk I'd been all but running.

I tried not to dwell on what would happen at the 4077th upon my return, especially McIntyre's threat of "tough questions" that I would face. I felt somewhat apprehensive, but I also knew I couldn't go AWOL forever.

Finally, after what felt like a ten-mile hike, the MASH 4077th came into sight. My heart sank.

"Shit," I muttered to myself. That fairly well summed up the whole situation. I knew they'd be on the lookout for me; my worst fears were confirmed when I heard a nurse shout "Frank Burns is back!" Almost immediately a swarm of people ran out the front to greet me. McIntyre must have told Henry, who told someone else: news spreads like TB in that dump.

The moment I stepped past the sign reading "MASH 4077th: Best Care Anywhere" Margaret ran out to give me a welcoming hug. Nice thought, but no thanks.

"_Frank!_ Oh my goodness, where did you go? We've been so worried about you!" (Yeah, right.) I pushed her aside, earning myself a trademark Margaret's-Shocked-Gasp. "Major Burns! How dare you!" Ooh, I'd pay for that later.

Brushing Margaret aside, I kept walking, past the whispering crowd.

"Hold it right there, Major!"

I froze. Behind me, I could hear the _crunch, crunch, crunch_ of army boots on the muddy earth.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, going AWOL? You'll be damned lucky if you don't get court-martialled!" Lt. Col. Blake walked – or more accurately, stomped – into my field of vision, sporting a beetroot-coloured complexion that clashed with his hat terribly.

"Well? EXPLAIN YOURSELF!"

Being an army man, and trained to take orders, I had to do as I was told… but how? How the hell was I going to explain this one?

"I…I…er, went for a, uh, walk and, um, got…lost…" I could feel myself getting hot under the collar. Nice one, Frank, you crazed fool.

I looked hard at Blake, who for once in his life actually seemed to be taking control. Just my luck…a useless man most of the time, but as soon as I'm in the shits he gets his act together… He faltered, glancing over at Pierce and McIntyre who were glaring right back. Evidently they, along with everyone else, wanted to see Frank Burns taken down a peg or two.

"You," Blake stated in my direction, "come with me. Radar, get the MPs." I watched, eyes wide, as O'Reilly ran to his office. Only then did it really hit me…I was stuffed.

I trudged behind Blake to his office. Behind me, there were two or three pairs of boots slamming into the mud. That'd be Pierce, McIntyre and possibly Margaret.

Margaret… she'd never look me in the eye again. What with running off like the immature brat as whom I am so often described, plus rudely snubbing her as I walked in…it would be a wonder if she even said another word to me. Great. I'm about to get court-martialled for sure AND I lose Margaret. Could life have been any worse? I suppose I could have gotten another letter from Louise…come to think of it, I should probably have replied to the one she'd already sent.

"In," Blake declared, jarring me from my thoughts. I followed him to his office, oh-so-slightly apprehensive. Blake had always been a most incompetent commander, but right when I didn't need it he put his foot down. As we sat down I noticed O'Reilly rush into the room.

"The MPs are on their way, sir."

"Thank you, Radar." He nodded and O'Reilly rushed back out.

Blake turned to me, the angriest I'd ever seen him.

"Major Burns, do you realise what you've done!" shouted Henry, standing up to look me in the eye.

"Erm, gone, uh, AWOL, sir."

"Damn right you've gone AWOL!" he bellowed, in keeping with his penchant for stating the obvious. "Do you realise what you've put this camp through? Have you any idea how worried we've all been?"

"You…you were worried?"

From the back, "Sorry Frank, Henry's having you on. We were having a ball." Don't egg McIntyre on, and no one will get hurt.

"McIntyre! Keep your mouth shut!" shrieked Margaret.

"As I was saying, _McIntyre_, Frank, you have put this camp through a lot of unnecessary grief." Henry sat down, motioning for me to follow suit. He leant over the desk towards me. I actually felt a tad intimidated for the first time.

"Why did you do it?"

I sat in his chair for what was probably only a minute but dragged on for eternity. I should really have thought of that before I left the foxhole for camp. What was I going to tell him!...

I gave a big sigh, which startled Henry and once more paid me close attention. There was, after all, only one option.

**The truth.**

Pierce wasn't going to like it, but that couldn't be helped.

……ooooooOOOOOOoooooo……

"McIntyre was pissing me off. I took a walk and went a bit, er, too far." I tried to say it with as much sincerity as I could muster.

"Nicely phrased, Frank." Those were the first words Pierce had said all day. He didn't show much expression.

"Look, Frank, McIntyre pisses you off every day. What was so special about this time?" he asked pleadingly, at the same time shooting a warning glare at McIntyre.

"I…I…I told him to leave me alone and he didn't! He kept at me!" I whined. Yes, whined. Excellent, Frank. Whining won't get you anywhere. 

"You haven't gotten over that by now? I mean, Frank, can't you be a bit more thick-skinned?"

I turned around. Margaret was nodding. "Yeah, Frank, let it bounce off you." McIntyre averted my gaze, looking ever-so-slightly sorry for himself. Pierce's face was motionless; if he hadn't been breathing and blinking I would have sworn the gaze of the Medusa had turned him to stone.

"But…but…"

"I don't have time for this, Frank. Get out of my office. For now, consider yourself in _very deep trouble_. I'll speak with you later. That includes you three at the back." He looked at each of us in turn. "I said GET OUT! And that's an order!"

I stood up and headed out the door, followed by Margaret. Pierce and McIntyre shuffled along behind, muttering to each other.

The only place I wanted to be right then was in my tent, preferably alone, wallowing in self-pitying thoughts and drowning my sorrows in lighter fluid. Not the most professional and useful way to spend one's time, I know. Then again, I was sort of on a roll when it came to wasting time. I'd already wasted a whole night, lying in that foxhole in the middle of nowhere, alone with my thoughts.

I opened the door of the tent so creatively titled "The Swamp" and flopped onto my cot. The still caught my attention almost immediately.

"Drink from me, Frank," it seemed to sing. "Drink and all your worries shall be washed away."

I shook my head. Maybe I'd flipped; maybe the foxhole and my night under the stars had meddled with my brain. Of course the damn still wasn't "singing" to me! What sort of fool had I turned into?

"A terrible fool," it sang.

Either that still's pulling a Radar O'Reilly, or I'm going bonkers.

Even with my new-found lunacy, I felt I should leave the Still until I was offered a drink; if I was offered one at all. McIntyre would never look me in the eye again. Then again… had there ever been a time he'd looked me square in the eye? Seriously? I let the matter rest and made myself comfortable on my cot. Maybe Pierce would… if he saw fit to continue being nice to me.

The door swung open. I turned around to find Pierce's eyes boring into my own.

"Morning, Frank."

……ooooooOOOOOOoooooo……

_Friends, Romans and countrymen, that brings us to the end of Part 5. Thankyou for your patience and your reviews. _


	6. Chapter 6

_Welcome to Part 6. I apologise if this part is a bit shoddy. Yes, very OOC here, I realise that. The next chapter will be the last. If anyone's wondering where Hallucinogens has gone, it shall be up eventually. I can't give a timeframe at the moment, though. Have faith, and you shall be rewarded. :D_

_Now, on to the story. _

Part 6 

"Morning, Frank."

I huffed. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Actually, I wouldn't mind knowing, nor would anyone else in this godforsaken place. You seem to forget, Frank, that no one has actually gotten out of you why you did such a stupid thing."

"Hmph. Did Colonel Blake send you in?"

"No, I sent myself here. I do believe I am still entitled to enter my own tent." He poured himself a drink. It seemed to be his ritual for entering this mess; walk in; pour drink; sip drink; sit on chair/bed; enjoy drink. After this ritual was completed, regular thought could resume.

The silence permeated the tent for a number of minutes. We were both used to this, this all-pervading silence. I would normally sit reading a book or writing a letter, minding my own business, and Pierce would sleep, loudly play poker with McIntyre or be too absorbed in his drink to carry out a coherent conversation. In any case, he'd never talk to me. After all, I was Major Frank Burns, the bane of the camp's existence and the one person people avoided most. However, I was soon to be proved wrong.

"Frank?"

"Pierce?"

He sighed. "My name is Hawkeye, Frank. Hawkeye. Can we say that? Hawk-"

"Pierce, I am perfectly capable of… oh, what's the bloody use. Hawkeye, then."

The awkward silence continued…

"You know what, Frank? I don't know what to say to you. I honestly don't know. I mean, 95 of the time you're a regular-army pompous twit whom I barely care about. You rant and rave and carry on a right treat. But the other 5 - i.e. yesterday – you turn somewhat bearable. That and the time the sniper kept shooting at camp and you were too scared shitless to be such a pain in the arse.

"I'd always thought I could rely on you. I could always rely on you to be in O.R. when you were needed. I could always rely on you following army discipline, for better or worse. I could always rely on you to be great fodder for the latest practical joke Trapper and I dreamed up. I thought I had you all worked out, Frank. I was wrong."

Hawkeye paused, struggling to find the words to match his thoughts and feelings. He ran his hands through his hair for what seemed like the millionth time. I kept silent, knowing anything I said would likely inflame the man's temper.

"Then again, I should have seen it all coming. This…this petulant, childish tantrum you threw, the way you snapped at Trapper. The way you stomped off in a huff and left us wondering what we all did, or didn't as the case may be. The way you come storming back as if you've done nothing wrong."

An eerie silence filled the tent, the likes of which neither of us had heard before.

"God…" He seemed disgusted by his own words. "What the hell am I saying? I need another drink." He rose and promptly fixed himself another martini. "I mean…" He counted on his fingers. "I am speaking in a civil tongue! I am remaining calm and not breaking anything! I am having a conversation with Frank Burns and I haven't made fun of him once! ONCE, DAMMIT!" The martini was sat next to his cot.

Actually, he _had_, but…

Hawkeye looked over at me. "Did you touch that still?"

"No! Of course not? Why would I touch your foul, disgusting paintstripper factory?"

"I don't know, Frank. As I said, I thought I had you all figured out. We all did. You've gone completely haywire these last couple of days… who knows…"

We continued to sit in uncomfortable silence.

"Haw…Hawkeye?"

"Yes, Frank?"

"Was…was any-anybody wo-worried about m-me?"

Hawkeye's initial reaction was to consider it a ridiculous question, but for once his head worked before his mouth. "Margaret, for obvious reasons; Henry, because he had to; erm…" he trailed off. "I think that's it. Trapper was overjoyed, but that was before he started thinking and he was crapping on a right treat about how he'd made you run off."

"But he did!" I cried, indignant.

"Whatever, Frank. In any case, he kept on and on and on until I sent him to a nurse to shut him up."

"What an indecent way to quieten the man."

"It works."

A pause.

"What about you, Hawkeye?"

Hawkeye seemed surprised that I actually used his nickname; I only ever referred to him as 'Pierce' or 'that degenerate' and certainly not in a remotely friendly fashion. He didn't comment on that, however. He put his head in his hands before looking up.

"Yeah, I suppose I did."

"What, missed me?" I couldn't help thinking back to when he once tried to fake insanity to get R/R in Tokyo. I must admit, he did an excellent job; Klinger could do worse than take a leaf out of his book. I remember McIntyre telling me that Hawkeye was talking about what a great friend I was and I replied, "He _has_ flipped." I couldn't help thinking, once again, along those lines.

"You think I'm nuts, don't you?"

"I'd be lying if I said no."

A pause.

"Did Colonel Blake tell you to say all that?"

I realised halfway through the sentence that it was one I should not have asked. He rose to his feet, anger in his eyes, anger that one would only ever see from Hawkeye Pierce.

Shit.

"WHAT!" He stood staring at me with his jaw scraping the floor. "I…I tell you what I think, I word it as nicely as I know how, I try to be courteous and polite and friendly… and you turn around and accuse me of merely saying what Henry told me to say!" He slowly walked towards me, speaking in a menacingly low voice. "Henry wouldn't say what I just said if his arse was on fire. Henry wouldn't go to the trouble of saying what I said. Even if you refuse to believe me, I spoke of my own accord."

"Hawk-eye," I began, speaking his name slowly. It would take me a while to get used to referring to him in such a friendly manner. "I-I didn't… I mean, you normally don't make speeches like that."

"Does Henry?"

"Well…"

"Exactly." He drained what was left of his martini.

"_Attention, all personnel. Incoming wounded. Repeat, incoming wounded. All personnel report to surgery."_

We both got up. "Well, that ends our lovely little conversation; now let's face reality, shall we?" He turned to me and smirked, his words carrying that hardened edge. "Come along, Frank."

Though I detested being spoken to in such a demeaning manner, the point was too trivial to bother arguing. We both stepped out of the tent and ran to the waiting choppers.

……ooooooOOOOOOoooooo……

_Part 7 (the next) will be the last, so if you have any really good ideas for this story, don't hesitate to make them known:D Alternatively, feel free to flame your little hearts out. Whichever you prefer._


	7. Chapter 7

_Hey all! Sorry for the unacceptably lengthy delay, though I'm quite sure you all managed to digest lots of other fanfiction during that time._

_Now chiddlers, repeat after me: "WE DO NOT OWN MASH." Say it… say it… come on, you know you want to. Good-o._

**The end of Part 6 (in case you've forgotten)**

"_Attention, all personnel. Incoming wounded. Repeat, incoming wounded. All personnel report to surgery."_

We both got up. "Well, that ends our lovely little conversation; now let's face reality, shall we?" He turned to me and smirked, his words carrying that hardened edge. "Come along, Frank."

Though I detested being spoken to in such a demeaning manner, the point was too trivial to bother arguing. We both stepped out of the tent and ran to the waiting choppers.

Part 7 

Once again, we – and by "we" I mean Pie-Hawkeye and myself – found ourselves in the O.R. I hoped that McIntyre wouldn't be a pain this time, and would keep quiet. Pah. Like that's ever going to happen.

"Bonecutter."

"Bonecutter."

So far, so good. Everyone was behaving themselves. That load was a particularly heavy one; evidently the Koreans' aim had somewhat improved.

"Metzenbaum scissors."

"Metz."

The nurse I was landed with was a bit better than the usual substandard performance, so I can't deny that helped my mood.

"Hey, Frank."

I ignored McIntyre and continued with my work. Replying would only dignify the man (though you couldn't deny he was in need of some dignity…).

"Frank!"

"Answer him, Burns. The quicker the better."

"Yes, Colonel. What is it, McIntyre? I haven't got time for your childish interruptions."

"_Childish_ interruptions? And what does that make you, Mr. Wise Old Man?"

"Trapper, let it be. You don't want another fight." Pier-Hawkeye. Being noble again, I see?

"Why not? Frank would have another tantrum and send him running into the bushes for a few days! What could be wrong with that?"

One could easily have heard a pin drop in that place. Once again.

"Wonderful, now could we keep this silence going?"

"Yes, Colonel."

"Yes, Mr. Henry Colonel Sir."

It was that time of day where Margaret and I should be spending some quality time together. Mid-afternoon, after surgery, patients in post-op. You know, going for a walk, checking out the, er, "supply tent," that sort of thing. Somehow, she just wasn't interested. I'd tried all the old ways of getting her eye, but she ignored all of them. Why was she doing this to me? What had I done to her?

I decided to stand around the middle of the compound, just so I could, you know, take in the views. Not that there's much to look at past brown and drab olive tents and the hills beyond.

"Mail call!"

A swarm of men and women rushed past me to collect their mail.

"Klinger… Baker… Houlihan…"

Shouts of "Here!" and "Yo!" punctuated the air. Evidently Radar O'Reilly had a lot of mail to give out.

"Blake… another Blake… _another_ Blake, you're getting a lot of mail, sir…"

"Bet my wife's sending me a lot of chequebooks."

"Haha, nice one sir… Able… Mulcahy… O'Reilly, one for me… and McIntyre. Sorry folks, that's all for today."

A simultaneous groan rose above the camp. Those with mail ran off to read it, while those without returned to their previous activities.

"Hey Trap, come here, I want to show you something."

Those two rascals walked off in the direction of the Swamp. Hmm… I wondered what they were up to. Knowing the two Captains more than I would have cared to in any other circumstances, I was fairly certain they were _not _going to discuss the latest medical techniques out of Tokyo.

"…letter from Dad…Uncle Artie…"

Ooh, interesting gossip. I couldn't help but take a closer, er, listen.

"Wow, Artie was close to you then?"

"Not really, we never got along… actually he was a pain in the gluteus maximus. Wish I'd spent more time with him now, though."

"What makes you say that, Hawk?"

"You never really know how long the people you know will be around. Especially in this khaki-decorated cesspool – we could all be shelled to bits tomorrow, still wondering about things."

"Do you think you'll regret not talking to anyone here?"

A long silence ensued.

"I don't know – you can only really answer that question in hindsight. Maybe kissed Hot Lips a few more times, played a few more tricks on Henry. Maybe even been a tad more civil to Frank…"

"Hawkeye, you're not that desperate, are you?"

"You're right, Trap. I'm not, and I never will be. Let's have another drink."

The glasses clink and the chatter subsided.

I snapped back to reality when I realised I'd been staring at the Mess Hall tent for a full five minutes.

Still wondering…

"You're not that desperate." McIntyre was right. Things would never change. We would continue the same as before until the end of the war, whenever that was. We'd all go home, to our families and practices. Some days, we'd reflect on this whole "police-action." Some days, we'd ponder what happened and what might have been.

Still wondering…

Were those the tough questions McIntyre threatened me with? I believe they were. He forgot about his threats soon enough, as I'd imagined he would. The toughest questions were those I asked myself, confronting me with what I didn't want to hear. I didn't trust myself to give an honest answer. So much for being thick-skinned.

Still wondering…

The war would make no apologies for anything.

_There you have it! The End! Thanks for reading! Sorry it's crap! Sorry it's taken so long!_


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